The Dying of the Light. Derek Landy

I’m mortal, and I can see you.”

      “But you are different.”

      “How? I mean, I’m not magic.”

      “But you come from magic,” the Engineer said. “You are a thing born from magic, as am I. But, unlike me, you have surpassed your original purpose. You have become a person – much like Pinocchio in the old fable.”

      “Pinocchio,” Stephanie said. “Huh. I hadn’t looked at it like that.”

      “My creator, Doctor Rote, would read to me at night. That was his favourite story. It is now my favourite also.”

      “Aw, that’s actually sweet. You want to be human?”

      “Oh, no, not at all,” said the Engineer. “I want to be a puppet.”

      She found Skulduggery in the Medical Wing, talking with Reverie Synecdoche. She didn’t get too close. Synecdoche was a nice enough doctor, but she was way too fascinated by Stephanie’s independent existence for it to be anything other than unnerving. Stephanie let Skulduggery talk and hung back, out of the way.

      The Medical Wing was adjacent to the Science Wing, and everyone in this part of the Sanctuary was serious and industrious and at all times busy. Apart from Clarabelle. Stephanie watched her work – or at least do something that could be misconstrued as work. She moved with none of the energy of the people around her and carried an empty clipboard, but the look of concentration on her face was fierce, and double that of anyone else. She had bright green hair today.

      “Hi, Clarabelle,” said Stephanie.

      Clarabelle stopped walking, but didn’t lose that look. “Hi, Valkyrie.”

      Stephanie shook her head. “It’s still Stephanie, I’m afraid.”

      “Why are you afraid? Did you do something wrong?”

      “That’s very likely,” said Stephanie. “You look busy.”

      “I know. I’m practising. None of the doctors will let me do anything until I’ve proven myself, so I’m pretending to be busy so that they’ll see I’m really good at it.”

      “Do you think that’ll work?”

      “I’m fairly confident,” said Clarabelle. “It’s how I got Professor Grouse to hire me. He told me afterwards that he immediately regretted his decision, but by then I’d already moved my stuff in. The doctors here aren’t as much fun. There’s one who looks like a toadstool. You’d imagine someone who looks like a toadstool would be fun to hang around with, but he isn’t. He also doesn’t appreciate being called a toadstool. Even Doctor Nye was more fun than Toadstool-head. Where is Doctor Nye?”

      “Prison.”

      “When is it getting out?”

      “Not for a long time.”

      Clarabelle pursed her lips for a moment, then nodded. “That’s probably a good idea. Doctor Nye isn’t very nice. It likes experimenting on things. I heard it once combined the top half of a centaur with the bottom half of a minotaur and the creature escaped, and you can hear it sometimes, roaming the woods at night, howling at the full moon …”

      “I’m not sure any of that is true.”

      “Still, though,” Clarabelle said, walking away, “it makes you think, doesn’t it?”

      “Stephanie,” Doctor Synecdoche called, and waved her over.

      Stephanie stifled a groan, and joined them without much enthusiasm.

      “I have something for you,” said Synecdoche, rooting around in a desk. “I don’t approve of it, personally, as I’m in the habit of saving lives rather than taking them. But an item was recently discovered buried in the backrooms of the Old Sanctuary, and I was considering your situation and I thought that … let me just find it …”

      “My situation?” Stephanie asked.

      “Not having magic,” said Skulduggery. “The shock stick is useful, but limited if you can’t recharge it yourself. The Sceptre is unstoppable but, in its own way, also limited. You may not have the space to aim and fire.”

      “So I saw something,” Synecdoche said, “and thought of you. Ah, here we are. What do you think?”

      She held out a gauntlet made of black metal.

      Stephanie’s eyes widened, and even Skulduggery stiffened.

      Synecdoche couldn’t help but notice the reaction. “Is something wrong?”

      “This is the gauntlet I wear in the vision,” Stephanie said.

      “So it would seem,” murmured Skulduggery.

      “You’ve seen this in a vision?” Synecdoche asked. “But I just came across it yesterday. I thought you might want it as a last-resort weapon.”

      Stephanie frowned. “What does it do?”

      Synecdoche hesitated. “The Old Sanctuary was built by a more ruthless breed of sorcerer. This belonged to one of them. It’s called a Deathtouch Gauntlet. When it’s activated, one touch will take someone’s life. Ordinarily I’d have had it destroyed immediately, but considering what you’re going up against, I thought you could use all the help you can get. You said Mevolent pulled Darquesse’s head off and she reattached it, yes? She managed to use her last few seconds of thought to heal herself. With the Deathtouch Gauntlet, there are no last thoughts. Physical death and brain death are instantaneous, so, provided Darquesse doesn’t know what’s coming, she won’t even have the chance to survive.”

      Stephanie looked at Skulduggery. “If I don’t wear it, will the future we’ve seen be averted?”

      “Not wearing the gauntlet will more than likely have no impact whatsoever on the vision coming true,” Skulduggery said. “We’ve seen details of the vision change, but the result is always the same.”

      “Well, I’m not wearing it,” said Stephanie. “There. I’ve decided. Can we go see Cassandra? Check if the vision still ends the same way?”

      Skulduggery nodded, his voice suddenly brighter. “I’ll tell Cassandra to expect us. Doctor, thank you for your efforts, but it appears we won’t be taking the gauntlet.”

      “OK,” said Synecdoche. “But I’ll put it aside for you, Stephanie, just in case.”

      “Don’t bother,” Stephanie said, already moving away. “I’ll never wear it.”

      

      hina Sorrows was waiting for them when they entered the Room of Prisms. Thin pillars of angled glass stretched from floor to ceiling, and in the centre of the room sat the Grand Mage herself, elegant in a flowing powder-blue dress, a brooch on her breast signifying her elevated status. Stephanie had heard people say she’d chosen this room to receive visitors because it had more angles with which to reflect her unnatural beauty – her raven hair, her eyes like ice, her perfect features – but Stephanie knew better. China had chosen this room so that she could see anyone trying to sneak up behind her. China was a cut-throat, and only cut-throats know how cut-throats work.

      Behind China’s throne – for that’s what it was – the Black Cleaver stood with silent menace.

      “Here they come,” China said, smiling. “The only two people who ever bring me any good news. Do you know how depressing that can be? If I were delicate, I’d surely faint with the pressure.”

      “You